


A Spot of Approval

by ArtemisRayne



Series: May Look at a King - A Newsies Felisian AU [5]
Category: Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Felisians, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Brothers, Cat Ears, Cat/Human Hybrids, Felisian!Jack, Felisian!Spot, M/M, Meet the Family, Protective Older Brothers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-05
Updated: 2018-09-05
Packaged: 2019-07-07 10:26:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15906405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtemisRayne/pseuds/ArtemisRayne
Summary: Considering the fact that Jack Kelly and Davey Jacobs are nearly inseparable from their first date, it's a surprise that it takes more than a month before Davey finally meets the mysterious third member of the 'Conlon/Kelly' household.





	A Spot of Approval

**Author's Note:**

> Since the last chapter of the last installment introduced us to a member of Davey's family, I thought it was about time we met a member of Jack's.

Considering the fact that Jack and Davey become practically inseparable from their first date, it's a little surprising that it takes more than a month before Davey meets the final member of the Conlon/Kelly household. He knows Race well enough at this point, mostly from the inordinate amount of time Davey spends camped out in the Banner Café between classes, and once Davey learns how to take his sometimes overpowering personality, they get along well. Not to mention, Race is studying engineering and turns out to be some sort of mathematical genius, so he's invaluable help on Davey's homework.

It's not that Davey doesn't hear enough about the elusive Spot Conlon from the others. Jack and Race both tell endless stories that involve Spot; teenage escapades and pranks, drunken college adventures, silly family stories. He knows that Spot's a med student and works an internship at a children's hospital in Brooklyn, which is why he's rarely home, and he knows that - like all of Jack's siblings - he's a felisian. Davey's even seen pictures of Spot before, on Jack's phone and the framed photo on the bookshelf of Spot and Race in a candid moment of tender shared smiles. So Davey knows _about_ Spot, he just hasn't actually _met_ him.

Davey makes his way to the apartment on a Tuesday evening, picking at his fingers anxiously. He and Jack were supposed to make plans for dinner, but he can't get ahold of Jack now, his texts ignored and his call unanswered. Davey tries not to overthink it - maybe his phone's just dead - but he's always been a worrier. So he steps up to the row of buzzers beside the locked gate and presses the one labeled ' _Conlon/Kelly_.'

"Whozit?"

Davey blinks in surprise at the deep voice crackling from the speaker, utterly unfamiliar, and he has a split second of wondering if he buzzed the wrong apartment. "Uh, sorry, I'm looking for Jack Kelly," he says. "Is this-?"

"Oh, you must be Davey," the gravelly voice says. "C'mon up." There's a dull buzz as the gate latch releases and Davey swings it open, slipping into the stairwell. By the time he makes it up the stairs, he's realized who it must've been that answered the bell. He knocks at the apartment door, and now his nerves over Jack's radio-silence are coupled with the prospect of finally meeting the mysterious older brother.

Davey's built up an idea of Spot Conlon in his head, a combination of everything he's heard so far, but all of that is immediately dashed aside as soon as the door opens.

 _Short_. That's Davey's first thought as he has to tip his head down to even see the older man's face. Davey knows he's a relatively tall guy himself, but he's got to have half a foot on Spot. He's got well-tanned skin and black hair, with a hard set to his jaw and muscular arms folded over his chest. His eyes are a bright, almost luminous yellow, narrowed as he stares up at Davey. Although he knew about Spot's ears in advance, actually seeing them in person makes Davey's stomach lurch; lined in sleek, black fur, one of his ears has been torn in half, the jagged, scarred edge barely standing taller than his hair.

"So, youse the fella my brotha won't shut up 'bout," Spot says in a heavy Brooklyn drawl, eyeing Davey appraisingly.

Davey shifts anxiously, feeling like he's being x-rayed by the gleaming eyes. "Uh, I guess so," Davey says. "Davey Jacobs. It's nice to actually meet you."

"Sean Conlon," the shorter man replies, shaking Davey's offered hand. It seems like Davey passes whatever inspection Spot's doing because he steps back to let Davey into the apartment at that point. "Jack's in his room."

Davey's gaze flicks to the closed bedroom door curiously. That's another thing Davey hasn't seen in the time he's known Jack. They always stay out in the living room when they hang out at the apartment, and it feels like an intrusion to go in there without being invited first. "Don't worry 'bout it," Spot says as if he knows what Davey's thinking. "Lemme guess, he flaked on ya plans?"

"I mean, we didn't exactly have _set_ plans," Davey says in Jack's defense, shrugging.

"And the dickhead's not answerin' his phone," Spot concludes. He smirks, lips tugging up on one side just enough to show a hint of fang. "S'not personal, he forgets everythin' when he's paintin'. He's been in one'a his frenzies, ain't come out all day. Go 'head, give him hell."

Davey nods and turns toward the bedroom door, heart hammering slightly, but he only makes it two steps before a low, agitated noise is followed by, "Oh and Davey?" When Davey turns back, Spot's tail - jet black and fuller than Jack's, but not quite a proper bottlebrush - is lashing against the back of his thighs. "Don't let Cowboy fool ya. He likes ta' act like he got it all togetha, but I've never seen him really _try_ like he's doin' with you. Jack's been through some shit, and he ain't good at bein' close ta' people, but he's a damn sap underneath it all. So if you ain't serious 'bout this, or if youse just lookin' for some sorta thrill-"

A small laugh escapes Davey before he can muffle it. "Are you giving me the 'you break his heart, I'll break your legs,' speech right now?" he asks with a smile. "Sorry, I just - I thought people only did that in movies."

Spot's expression goes flat, and Davey has a split second of wondering if he's just made a very dangerous miscalculation. (And the part of his brain that watches way too many crime dramas decides to helpfully chip in that a med student would probably know how to make a murder look like natural causes.) Then Spot smirks again, broader and more genuine this time. "Wasn't gonna put it that way, but yeah, basically," he agrees.

Davey takes a deep breath to steel himself. "Look, Sean, I know Jack's got - _issues_ ," he says. "And I'm not going to pretend I don't have baggage too. But I can guarantee you, this isn't just some sort of 'wouldn't it be fun to date a felisian' experiment for me. I like Jack. A lot. And I mean I like _Jack_ , not his ears or his tail, you know? The stubborn, sarcastic artist who flirts too much, and hides behind swagger and stupid jokes when he's nervous, and cares more than he knows how to deal with. And if it's gonna take him some time to work out his commitment issues or whatever, well, I'm in no hurry to get anywhere."

Yellow eyes are narrowed as Spot surveys Davey thoughtfully, ears half-drawn back and tail perfectly still. Then a slow smile steals across his face. "Startin' ta' think maybe Jacky's gettin' more than he bargained with you," the older man says thoughtfully. "Might be exactly what he needs. Oh, and you can call me Spot." With that, Spot nods and then disappears into his bedroom without another word.

Feeling distinctly like he just passed a difficult test he didn't study for, Davey heads for the door to Jack's bedroom with his head reeling. He knocks, and when there's no response after a full minute, Davey cautiously opens the door. One half of the room looks exactly like you'd expect a twenty-year-old bachelor's bedroom to look - unmade bed, mismatched furniture, a pair of jeans heaped on the floor by the laundry basket. Then the door opens the rest of the way, and Davey sees the other side.

Half of the room has been converted into a pieced-together amateur art studio. There are an assortment of rugs on the floor, arranged and layered over each other to completely cover the existing carpet. Several lamps are lined up in the corner of the room around a towering easel, which is supporting a half-finished painting. A long, narrow table holds a disorganized clutter of supplies, paint tins and brushes and palettes laid out with no visible pattern. And there, in the middle of it all, is Jack.

Davey leans against the doorframe, surveying Jack curiously. It's fascinating to see him like this, somehow so radically different than the Jack he usually sees. He's dressed in a pair of jeans that are more holes and paint stains than actual denim, and a tank top that looks like it was probably black once but has been washed so many times it's a threadbare gray beneath the colorful paint splatters. Jack's eyes are narrowed in concentration, an almost predatory focus to his gaze, and his tail lifts to balance him as he leans in toward the painting.

He looks rapt and electric, barriers lowered to let something inside of him pour out onto the canvas, and beneath the swirl of emotions, he seems unburdened in a way Davey's never seen before.

This stolen moment feels oddly intimate, like he's seeing something intensely private, and Davey clears his throat self-consciously. Jack hasn't noticed Davey standing in the doorway, and the set of felisian-styled earbuds clipped into his ears explains why he didn't catch the knocking. He also doesn't hear it when Davey raises his voice slightly and says, "Jack?" So Davey crosses the room in several quick steps and taps Jack's bared shoulder.

Jack jumps like he's been electrocuted, yelping and spinning on his heel. It seems that Jack's fight-or-flight reflexes are geared more towards the former because he flails his hand out in a defensive swipe. Fortunately, the only weapon he's currently holding is a paintbrush. Davey sputters at the scratchy-tacky feeling of a jagged line painted across his jaw and neck. They stare at each other, both wide-eyed and panting for a long second, before Davey laughs.

"Jesus H Christ, Dave," Jack says, breaking out in giggles himself. He tosses his paintbrush on the table and reaches up to remove his headphones, letting them hang around his neck.

Davey, meanwhile, is now laughing so hard he's doubled over, clutching his stomach. "You just stabbed me with a _paintbrush_ ," he chokes out breathlessly.

"Ya scared me," Jack protests. As his tail brushes the back of his leg, he looks down at it and frowns. The fur is standing on end, his tail easily more than twice its normal size, an instinctive reaction to fear. "Aw, look whatcha done," he mutters balefully. He reaches down to smooth the fur before remembering there's paint on his hands, and he huffs at the green smudges that now stand out brilliantly on the dark fur.

"Here," Davey says, grabbing a rag that's sitting on the table nearby and passing it over.

Jack takes it with a grateful nod, wiping his hands. "Whatcha doin' here?" he asks curiously.

Davey picks up another rag from the table and attempts to clean the paint from his face. "Well, I was supposed to be having dinner with this guy," he says, smile teasing, "but he ghosted me."

Jack's eyes go wide, startled, and his gaze darts to the bedside table. His phone is sitting on top of a textbook, a little light blinking in the corner to inform them that he's got missed notifications. His ears droop down to the sides as he flashes a nervous, embarrassed glance at Davey. "Shit, Davey, m'sorry, I didn't mean to, I was just paintin', and I didn't even-"

The rest of his sentence is cut off in a grunt when Davey hooks his hands behind Jack's neck and drags him into a kiss. Jack stiffens, surprised, before he grins against Davey's mouth and tugs him closer. "You do that a lot, ya know?" Jack mumbles when they finally break apart. "Interrupt me like that."

"Sorry, you're cute when you get flustered," Davey says with a laugh, resting his forehead against Jack's. "I'll stop if you want."

Jack chuckles. "Mm, didn't say that." He brushes his thumb along the edge of Davey's jaw and smirks when it comes away bright green. There is now a matching blotch on Jack's chin that makes Davey chuckle. "Really am sorry, though," he adds, bumping his nose against Davey's in a tentative gesture. "Didn't know it got so late."

"Yeah, Spot said you were in a - _frenzy_ , I think was the word he used," says Davey.

"Ain't a frenzy," Jack mutters petulantly, nose wrinkling up the way it does when he's trying not to pout. "Just - got an idea, had to get it out, and - wait, _Spot_?"

"Oh, yeah, I met your brother, by the way," Davey says, chuckling. "He's the one who let me in. He's kind of intimidating for someone so - vertically-challenged."

Jack snorts, falling against Davey in laughter. "Hey, size don't stop things bein' scary," he says. "You think Spot's bad, you should meet the little sister. Smalls is tiny and feisty, like a wolverine or somethin'. Sorry, though, didn't mean for you to have to deal with him on your own the first time. He can be a li'l intense."

"I don't know, I kind of like him," Davey admits, making Jack's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I definitely feared for my life for a second, but he's not so bad. He's just being a big brother, I get that. He obviously cares about you a lot. He was just making sure I wasn't coming in to toy with the heart of his little, what did he call you," Davey pauses, tapping his chin in mock consideration before the shit-eating grin escapes, " _Cowboy_?"

Jack reels back, eyes wide and cheeks flushed, and then a low, irritated growl reverberates in his chest. "Dammit, Spot!" he shouts toward the wall that separates the two bedrooms. "I'mma kill ya!"

On the other side of the wall, there's a sharp burst of laughter. "Then next time answer youse fuckin' phone!" Spot hollers back. "Ya boyfriend interrupted my nap!"

Both of them splutter at that, exchanging nervous glances that have nothing to do with Spot's sleep schedule. They haven't really discussed putting a label on their relationship yet, despite more than a month of near-daily contact. Even when they don't see each other, when juggling school and jobs and homework make their schedules impossible, they still text each other throughout the day. Does that make them a couple?

Jack looks just as anxious, his ears pulled back and tail held perfectly still the way it only does when he's making a conscious effort to not give anything away. He worries at his bottom lip a minute before he finally meets Davey's gaze. Those gleaming amber eyes are full of uncertainty and fear and hope, and it melts Davey like sunshine. So Davey decides to skip the words again, lunging forward to claim Jack's lips with his own.

In the end, as with most of the important things with them, it kind of goes without saying.

"And wouldja take your fella out for dinner a'ready?" Spot bellows through the wall, making them break apart with a jolt. "He's skinny as a stick, it ain't right."

Jack chokes on a laugh as Davey immediately blushes, embarrassed. "Means he likes ya," Jack says conspiratorially. "He's a grumpy mama bear in secret. Wouldn't fuss if he didn't like ya." Grinning, Jack snags a shirt from the closet and pulls it on over the paint-splattered tank. "C'mon, I think I owe ya dinner."

"We're both covered in paint," Davey points out as Jack slings an arm around his shoulders, guiding him toward the door.

"It's New York," Jack replies, shrugging. "Guarantee we'll see least three things weirder than us 'fore we done." He holds the front door for Davey, then pauses to lock up behind them. "'Sides, Spot's on night shifts. He'll kill us if we keep him up. S'best to make ourselves scarce for a bit 'til he gotta work."

Davey winces. "I didn't mean to wake him up."

Jack waves a hand flippantly. "S'fine, my fault," he says. "He's used'ta it, honestly, with me and Race comin' and goin' all day. So, I'm feelin' Thai. You?" Davey laughs at the abrupt change of topic, but he nods and lets Jack steer him down the stairs of his building.

It's late in the evening when they finally wander back toward Jack's apartment, stomachs full of curry and naan, debating animatedly. "Gold Tracksuit Couple, no contest," Jack says as he fights the stubborn deadbolt on the apartment door. "That color was legit painful to look at."

"Nah, I'm still sticking to Plant Man," Davey counters, shaking his head. "He was carrying a potted plant!"

"Maybe he just bought it, was bringin' it home," Jack points out. He makes a triumphant noise as the lock finally gives. "That ain't that weird."

Davey snorts loudly. "He was _talking_ to it," he says, following Jack into the apartment. "That is a hundred-percent weirder than questionable fashion choices."

"Guys, help me out here," Jack says imploringly to Race and Spot, who are both in the kitchen. "What's weirder: middle-age couple wearing matchin' gold tracksuits, or dude carryin' around a potted plant?"

"And talking to it," Davey adds, pointedly jabbing Jack with an elbow for leaving the detail out.

"Yikes, plant guy, definitely," Race says, wrinkling his nose.

"The tracksuits were _glittery_!" Jack protests emphatically. Race just shakes his head.

Spot, who is now dressed in a set of medical scrubs and sipping a mug of coffee, raises an unimpressed eyebrow at them both. "The fuck you two on about?"

"Tryna decide who's the weirdest person we saw on our way to get food," says Jack, like that's a completely normal conversation. Of course, Davey reasons, with Jack that's probably true. "'Cause Davey didn't believe me we'd see people weirder than two college kids covered in paint. Narrowed it down to those two, but he's bein' stubborn 'bout it. Seriously, the glitter, it was _agony_. If ya'd seen it, Spotty..."

The shorter felisian glances between them, eyes calculating. There's a long, drawn-out pause as they all wait, and then, "Plant guy."

"Ha!" Davey crows triumphantly, shoving Jack's shoulder. "I told you!"

"Good luck with the peanut gallery," Spot says, directing his attention to Race as he sets his coffee mug in the sink. He ducks in to give the blonde a quick kiss and sling a backpack over his shoulder. "I'm off to work."

Jack throws up his hands in defeat, stomping off toward the living room sofa and muttering about 'dirty traitors.' Davey laughs. "Don't be a spoilsport," he calls after his boyfriend (and _wow_ , that word still sends a thrill through his gut) in amusement. "Being wrong is good for your ego."

And there's more than a hint of a smile dancing around Spot's mouth when he pauses to say goodbye to Davey on his way out the door.


End file.
